


Deconstructive Reconstruction

by usedusernames



Series: 15Pairings--Malcolm in the Middle [1]
Category: Malcolm in the Middle
Genre: Chaptered, Community: 15pairings, Developing Relationship, Drunkenness, Dysfunctional Family, Ensemble Cast, Falling In Love, Friendship, Hand Job, Humor, Incest, Internal Monologue, M/M, Minor Character(s), Mutual Masturbation, POV Third Person, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Prequel, Present Tense, Pretend Relationship, Pretending to Be Gay, Season/Series 04, Sexual Content, Sexual Experimentation, Shared Bedroom, Sharing a Room, Sibling Incest, Siblings, Slash, Teenagers, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usedusernames/pseuds/usedusernames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MalcolmxReese slash/incest. 'Eyes widening in desperation, Reese cuts him off with a kiss. Malcolm manages to release the mangled exclamation, "Dipwad!" directly into Reese's mouth before the door bangs open.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Semi-Canon compliant, this story takes place in season four. It differs from canon in three ways: 1. Malcolm stays friends with the Krelboynes, 2. Nikki and Allison break up with Malcolm and Reese sooner, and 3. Lois spends less time on bed rest.
> 
> It references the following episodes: The Cheerleader, The Robbery, Malcolm's Girlfriend, Family Reunion, Malcolm Holds His Tongue (offhandedly; Malcolm's revealed to be a nail biter in this episode), Long Drive, and Graduation.
> 
> Comments appreciated.

"How likely is it that Mom'll kick us out for this?"

"Let's take the last 100 of our indiscretions; 50 mine and 50 yours. My Mom responses are 5 kick-outs and 50 yells coupled with assorted other punishments. Your Mom responses are 8 kick-outs and 50 yells.

"I've had 8 major indiscretions and 42 minors, you've had 13 majors and 37 minors. 4 of my 5 kick outs were for majors, and 5 of your 8 kick outs were for majors. Since we'd probably get the same punishment, together we have only a 19% chance of being kicked out for something this big-- which means there's an 81% chance we'll wind up stuck with Mom.

"If we do get kicked out, you'll wind up fighting the raccoons for the garbage cans and I'll fall asleep on the sidewalk and get ABC gum in my hair-- I think we'll agree that's a less than ideal situation. But, there's already a 100% chance that Mom will yell at us, and if we _don't_ get kicked out, it means she gets to keep yelling at us and making our lives hell the additional amount of time our average kick-out is, which is about 18.3 hours. Frankly, it's a lose-lose situation."

They both pause.

"But we're still doing it, right?" Reese asks.

Malcolm grins at him. "Of course."

:--:--:--:

"Reese." Malcolm's voice crawls toward a whine.

"We say nothing," Reese responds.

"Reese, it really got out of hand-- it's _in the paper_." It's now definitely a whine, masking itself as logical argument, "How _won't_ Mom find out?"

They listen as their mother's feet hit the floor. Her steps seem to echo, to vibrate through the floorboards, as she makes her way closer.

"Distraction!" Reese whispers loudly at him, an idea compressed hastily into one word.

"Boys!" Their mother yells.

Reese and Malcolm share a look. Malcolm has the bad habit of weighing things against each other, pros and cons and statistics and possibilities, which is useful in science and horribly counterproductive to getting out of trouble. "What if she already knows? That's why she's yelling." He whimpers first. He backtracks to try and convince his brother, "It's better if we tell her now."

"No!"

Reese grabs Malcolm by his shoulders, shaking him roughly.

Malcolm's words roll together in a frantic undertone as their mother pauses outside of the door, "Let go of me. I'm telling you, she's going to be so pissed if--"

Eyes widening in desperation, Reese cuts him off with a kiss.

Malcolm manages to release the mangled exclamation, "Dipwad!" directly into Reese's mouth before the door bangs open.

Malcolm meets his mom's eyes through a sideways glance, and for an instant she looks absolutely _surprised_. Surprised like a normal person, even, not like the patented Mom Surprise that she says is surprise ("I can't believe you two!") but is more tightly-wound anger than any emotion that slightly resembles shock. Although she recovers quickly, this millisecond of emotion so fills Malcolm with smug victory that he instantly decides to go along with Reese's plan, whatever it may be.

"Well," she says, "_excuse_ me."

"Oh! Mom!" Reese rockets away from Malcolm. Head bowed, scuffing his sock against the floor, he mumbles, "We--we didn't see you."

Tracking the events with his eyes, from Reese to his mother's face, Malcolm thinks his brother's usual overacting seems almost right in this case and follows his lead. "Y-Yeah. We were just…." He and Reese share an ashamed glance, in sync from years of practice. "I mean. It's not what it looks like."

Their mother folds her arms, squints. She's thinking, which is frightening in itself, but she's also quiet. If there's one thing worse than having their mom yell immediately, it's having her be silent long enough to think up an abnormally terrible torture before bursting into scream; the next look between Malcolm and Reese is one of entirely real fear. Suddenly the wheels in her head stop turning, her face muscles relaxing just long enough to be reshaped into a horrifyingly placid smile.

"Kitchen. Now," says Lois, already on her way to the kitchen.

"What've you got planned?" Malcolm hisses into Reese's ear as they follow the trail of their usual death march. Reese, seemingly enthralled to be the one to maneuver them out of trouble, just grins, keeping the glory to himself. Malcolm huffs. "Fine, don't tell me. Jerk."

They sit at one side of the table together, their mother planted across from them.

"You." Lois points at Reese. "Explain."

"Malcolm and I are in love," Reese answers plainly. The structure is a little crude; there's no build-up to the conclusion, a hole their mom is sure to spot, but the performance is wonderful and Malcolm is still so happily impressed with Reese's ability to lie that he almost doesn't catch his mother's next words:

"And you, Malcolm?"

"Right," says Malcolm, careful to keep his voice even, "in love."

"You're in love, huh?"

Both boys nod solemnly.

Lois' eyes narrow and her tongue's trek over her upper teeth is visible through her skin. "All right, fine. I don't know what you boys are up to, but I'll play along. For now. You want to be a couple? Fine. Congratulations. You're a couple. From now on, you will do as normal couples do, behave as normal couples behave, scrounge as normal couples scrounge. You will: Celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, and Valentine's; you will sleep in the same bed; given how needy you boys are, there will be PDA--I expect it to be tasteful, I didn't raise hooligans; you will cook, clean, and generally take care of each other's needs; any money you make will be pooled and will not be spent on one of you without consent of the other. Although you will continue to live in this house, don't expect Mommy to take care of you. I will not feed you, give you clothes, or wake you for school; you have each other for that. And, since from here on out you are, for all intents and purposes, independent, I expect you to pay rent. Nothing unreasonable; a hundred dollars a month. Understood?"

Malcolm, having grown increasingly incredulous through his mother's speech, slaps his palms onto the table and opens his mouth up to object. Reese, however, smiling defiantly, snags one of Malcolm's hands and clasps it between his own. Having expected backup, Malcolm looks to Reese in sheer horror. Holding the gaze, they communicate with their eyes, a silent language that sometimes happens quickly enough that their mother can't fully comprehend it.

After a violent back and forth composed only of moving eyebrows, wrinkling foreheads, and crinkling eyes, Malcolm's shoulders slump in defeat.

"Yeah, Mom," Reese says victoriously, "we understand."

When Hal shuffles wearily into the kitchen, well-worn from work, Lois smiles broadly. "Why don't you tell your father the wonderful news?"

Malcolm and Reese's eyes and mouths open wide.

_We'll do all kinds of stuff to make Mom mad, especially if it distracts her from something that will make her madder-- hey, in that sense we're being kind and considerate, right? And besides, Mom is tough. But the thing is, it's different with Dad. It's like how Reese can't beat up on Stevie because he's in a wheelchair; Dad's an emotional cripple. It's kind of a low blow to make someone like that actually feel bad._

"We're…going to start paying rent," Malcolm tries, casting worried glances at his mom.

Lois overrides him with: "The boys say they love each other."

"You should have known better than to try that old scheme. Just tell your mother what you did so we have this over with, _quick_ and _painless_."

"No, Hal. They say they're _in_ love with each other."

"'In love'. Like…" Hal makes an empty gesture. Lois nods. Like an automaton, Hal sits beside her and stares vacantly between his sons, who release hands and escape to their room wordlessly. Their movement inspires Hal to look slowly to his wife. With an air of sad wistfulness, he says, "You know, my cousin Maureen had the same thing with my cousin Rory…. Wouldn't it be ironic if something like this were genetic?"

"Oh, Hal, they don't have anything. They're faking! They're trying to distract us from something; I just can't put my finger on what. Don't worry, I made darn sure that in a few days, tops, they'll give it up."

:--:--:--:

That night involves Malcolm moving to Reese's bed. Dewey lets out a long, loud, happy sigh like he always does when either of his brothers are out of the house (voluntarily or not) and thusly out of their beds. He stretches out his arms and legs and flaps them like he's making a snow angel.

This kind of behavior would probably warrant a 'Shut up, Dewey,' at best under normal circumstances. Having to share a bed together after Malcolm's grown used to his much shorter brother and Reese has always had a bed to himself, however, does not inspire normal circumstances. Malcolm gets two kicks to the shin, a knee to the gut, an elbow in his ribs, and Reese's cold feet on his thighs. Reese in turn, not entirely on accident, gets a head to the nose, a punch to the eye, and fingernails in his spine. They glare at each other in the dark, about to tear each other and their room apart--

Dewey's sigh of contentment is purely bad timing.

Malcolm and Reese's faces relax, and they grin at each other. They both slip out from under the covers silently.

"Where're you going?" Dewey asks.

"To the garage," Malcolm answers honestly.

Dewey's eyes show the briefest flicker of suspicion, but, tired and having a bed to himself, he merely sinks back into his pillow.

It takes a good deal of the night, but everything goes according to plan.

"Sleep tight, Dewey," Reese says. He and Malcolm go back to bed. This time, completely tuckered out, they curl around each other comfortably.　

:--:--:--:

Although she vowed not to wake them for school, Lois can't resist asking the next morning, "So how did you boys sl--Oh, my God!"

Malcolm and Reese wake to her yell. They sit up sleepily and look over to Dewey.

"You should be proud of us, Mom," says Malcolm. "We worked together." He smiles fondly at his younger brother strapped to his bed, which is dangling vertically in the middle of the room precisely 6 inches off the floor. "It's a simple matter of having enough pulleys and a sufficient amount of rope."

"Get him down now." Lois says.

"The vein in her neck is pulsating. We should probably do what she says," Malcolm whispers to Reese.

Reese nods. "How do we get him down?" They look to their mother, who is tapping her foot. They quickly have a whispered conversation. "All right," says Reese out loud, "Mom, we think we can save either Dewey or the bed; we can't guarantee both…"

Her eruption almost makes the entire ordeal not worth it.

Unenthused about having to go past their mother to use the door, they eventually follow the rope out the window to the tree it's tied to.

It takes fifteen minutes to lower the bed, set it right, and free Dewey.

It really wasn't as bad as it looked, they insist; Dewey, used to being forgotten in a corner after his parents punished him, knew how to fall asleep standing up. Really, it was one of the nicer mean things they'd done to him. Nonetheless, their mother's ears are steaming, so Malcolm and Reese get Dewey dressed and take care of his breakfast before they even think of starting in on their own school preparation. Dewey, liking the attention, promises to forgive them if they take him for ice cream after school.

The truth is, at least this once, he's not holding any grudges-- he really can sleep standing up without any discomfort-- but he figures he may as well milk it while he can.

Dewey has already strolled outside by the time Malcolm and Reese are stepping into their shoes.

"Hands," Lois tells them right before they leave.

Both Reese and Malcolm stare at her blankly. Malcolm finally asks, "What?"

"Hands." she repeats.

It's a completely random comment that Malcolm, trying vainly to place into the context of their conversation from the day before, manages to understand. He laughs uneasily. "Oh, come on."

"Hands," she demands, loudly.

Malcolm sighs and takes Reese's hand into his own.

Lois leaves them with this thought before turning to walk away: "You wouldn't think it'd be such a chore to hold hands with someone you love."

:--:--:--:

"All right, no problem," Malcolm announces. "We get out of sight of the house, then we can let go."

Cleverly, they do just that, releasing sweaty palms to the cool morning air. Just as the perspiration is starting to dry from their fingers, they hear a whistle. They walk faster when they see their father driving slowly alongside them. They know what their mother told him, but they realize he must not entirely believe that they're faking; Hal continues staring straight ahead, giving them only the most minimal of looks. This makes Reese and Malcolm embarrassed for having embarrassed their father, and ends with all three participants avoiding each other's eyes.

"Boys," he calls through his rolled-down window. Connecting Reese and Malcolm by way of gesture, Hal waggles a finger in their general direction. Both of his sons groan and grab hands again. Hal's eyes shift as he gives his boys a quick peripheral glance. "Very good." With that, Hal rolls up his window and continues driving.

It takes surprisingly little time before they hear another voice:

"What's with…the hands?" Stevie asks, rolling up beside them.

"Mom was afraid Reese would get lost on his way to school." With a glare, Reese hip-checks Malcolm, who in response kicks Reese in the calf. Malcolm continues with, "Really, it takes too long to explain."

"No it doesn't," says Reese. "Mom thinks we're fucking. There. It's even _shorter_ than what you said."

Malcolm glowers at him. "Great. Spread it around, Genius."

Reese is about to counter when he realizes it isn't the sort of thing he wants to get around, either. "Tell anyone and you're dead, Kanarben."

His threat goes ignored.

"I'll tell you about it tonight," Malcolm tells Stevie. Remembering his promise, he rolls his eyes and adds, "Well, maybe tomorrow. Tonight we have to take Dewey for ice cream."

"Wish I had…dads like…you," Stevie wheezes.

"Har, har," Malcolm answers sarcastically. He spots the school, and after a quick check for any spying parents (Reese going so far as to peer into the shrubs for his mother; Malcolm allows this because he can't say it's outside the realm of possibility for her to be hunkering down in there), he and Reese drop hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Fake Up

Malcolm and Reese stagger up their sidewalk. Dewey, sticky-faced and a little crazy-eyed, is doing a perp walk in front of them. His sweater, acting as makeshift handcuffs, is tied tightly around his wrists. Malcolm opens the door when they come to it. Reese, having long ago happily accepted that he's the bad cop, pushes Dewey roughly inside.

"You boys are three hours late!" Lois shouts the instant the door is shut. Her voice is directed to a sink full of sudsy dishes. "You know I need you here to--" She wipes her hands on a towel and turns to her sons. She stops. "You gave Dewey sugar, didn't you?"

It really isn't even worth denying.

"He went so nuts," Reese says with a mixture of pride and horror.

"He went ballistic on that kid," Malcolm agrees, addressing Reese instead of his mother.

"So? He looked better bald."

"His parents didn't think so."

"Dewey cut off a boy's hair?" Lois interjects.

Malcolm hesitates before answering diplomatically, "Not exactly." He hopes his mother won't push.

"Man, I don't even wanna know what he would've done if he'd had _scissors_," Reese laughs, not catching Malcolm's attempt at tact. At his mother's glare, Reese says, "Don't worry, I smoothed things over."

A little upset at his brother's carelessness, Malcolm grinds out, "What he means is that while I talked to the mom, he tried to glue the kid's hair back on."

"It worked," Reese counters defensively.

Malcolm starts to argue as he unties Dewey, who makes a vaguely threatening guttural sound before scurrying off to find a dark corner to hide in. Lois takes a step as though to go after him before abandoning one son in favor of two. The look on her face makes whatever Malcolm had planned to say stall in the bottom of his throat.

:--:--:

 

__

_So, I thought about it last night and I figured this thing with Reese would be pretty much a fair trade:_

_Reese and I have to hold hands on the way to school, so our mornings would pretty much screwed. But we never did anything together during the school day, and we get home almost 20 minutes before Mom, which meant we'd have the rest of the day to ourselves and we wouldn't have to worry about being touchy-feely on the way back. Yeah, we have to sleep together, but it's not like I ever had my own bed, so Reese is the only one who might care about that, and I didn't bother taking his feelings into the equation of whether it's fair or not. _

 

_Even if he cared, we could definitely keep that up for a few days until the heat died down enough that there'd be no way Mom could find out what we did--or at least until the city stopped looking for the statue's head-- and then everything would go back to normal._

_Turns out Mom thought about that last night, too. She called the school and asked them to make sure Reese had lunch with me every day. I would've thought the school would have something better to do, but apparently they're all for anything that makes keeping an eye on Reese even marginally easier._

"In spite of your relationship being one that nature itself tends to take preventative measures against, I must say you're an aesthetically pleasing pair."

Although he hadn't been the one to say it, Malcolm casts a glare at Stevie first. Krelboynes are no different than normal kids in one regard: they enjoy hierarchy when it works in their favor. Without Malcolm having the chance to explain the situation, Stevie had blabbed, albeit slowly, and Lloyd and Dabney had latched onto the information like starved piranhas offered a slab of meat.

They had been mocking Reese and Malcolm since the break had started. Reese hadn't understood any of it. Malcolm had been at first equally clueless, though for an entirely different reason; he'd been whining with such gusto about getting grounded for (to hear him say it, 'just') taking his little brother out for ice cream that he had missed their barbs. After he wore down enough to catch what they were going on about, he tried to ignore them, finding consolation in the fact they had never been particularly competent at insults.

This tactic had lasted for all of five minutes.

His patience naturally thin and growing thinner, this time he responds with a tight, "Shut up, Lloyd." . Reese looks curiously to his brother. Malcolm, having first talked over and then ignored Reese's questioning glances just as much as he had his friends' comments, sighs and translates, "He's trying to make fun of us by saying we're a cute couple."

"Oh." Reese nods comprehendingly and turns from Malcolm to Lloyd. "Hey, Lloyd, just curious: d'you like your wedgies atomic or regular?"

"Regular," Lloyd says with a bit of a squeak, his hands unconsciously making a shield over the back of his pants.

Reese smiles winningly. "Good to know."

After this, all of the Krelboynes stop commenting on their unfortunate situation.

Malcolm, for once pleased that brute force won out over intelligence, grins at Reese.

:--:--:--:

The surprising trend of actually liking each other seems to continue through the school week.

Wednesday:

Malcolm had never been in the vicinity when Reese became protective of him. When he was younger, he had certainly heard about it from his friends as well as his enemies, and if he actually thought of it he'd always appreciated it with a smile on his face. But he didn't often truly think of it, so if someone who had bullied him one day happened to wander into school with a fat lip the next it seemed more an act of karmic justice than the act of one human being seeking revenge against another.

Not thinking of Reese as his body guard this year, however, was a bit more than mere thoughtlessness. A dramatic outburst during the summer had ended with Malcolm declaring his independence from his older brother's protection; he had to stick up for himself, not go whining to Reese all the time; it just made him look like more of a sissy when he did that. High school, he announced, would be a great place to get a fresh start when it came to sticking up for himself. Reese had answered with an indifferent shrug. Malcolm, as the days of summer waned, began to regret this decision more and more, but didn't ask for the protection back.

He'd taken the fact that he hadn't gotten beaten up yet as an unusual stroke of good luck.

So when Reese grabs a handful of a sophomore's shirt when he addresses the table with an insult to the amusement of his friends, Malcolm is surprised.

Reese asks the sophomore who he was talking about. When the sophomore hesitates, Reese asks again, accentuating the question with a shake. The sophomore points with a quavering finger at Stevie, Dabney, Malcolm. Reese punches him before his finger can waveringly point to Lloyd.

Reese catches Malcolm's eye when he sits back down. He answers his brother's wordless question with, "Dude, if I let you handle it you'd be road kill."

After a little objection, Malcolm suspects Reese is right, so he silently expresses the kind of unabashed, loving approval that is only acceptable for them to profess out loud over one of Reese's more impressive feasts or Malcolm's more ceremonious science award bestowments. Even the silent manifestation would be deserving of a Wet Willy, at least, if the Krelboynes weren't so purposefully looking down at their laps to avoid angering Reese and thus unable to see Malcolm's gaze.

Thursday:

After some deliberation, Malcolm opts out of some experiment that Stevie describes as '…Wild!' and Dabney says potentially compromises the molecular stability of insects and possibly rodentia. With a shrug, Malcolm says he's going to help Reese with his homework instead.

Dabney and Lloyd make a synchronized sound of disappointment, Stevie makes a similar one a few seconds behind them, and all three turn around to start the experiment themselves.

"If you…change your…mind…." Stevie calls out over his shoulder.

Watching after him, Malcolm waits for the end of the sentence. It takes a while before he realizes Stevie had simply trailed off. Conscious that he's probably looking like an idiot staring after Stevie, Malcolm hauls Reese's backpack onto the lunch table. He reflects on how he offered to help Reese the night before as he pulls out a clean sheet of paper, a freshly sharpened pencil, and Reese's horribly battered math book. After some consideration Malcolm prides himself on having not been at all condescending.

Reese, in an effort to delay Trigonometry as long as humanly possible, asks what Dabney and Lloyd were going on about.

Malcolm summarizes the situation as, "They're going to wind up making some bugs and rats explode, then they're probably going to cry about misusing their God-like power."

He and Reese share a look.

It sounds so much cooler when it's put that way.

They wind up tripping over each other and themselves to catch up with the retreating Krelboynes.

Nothing of real interest happens, at least in the regard to messy explosions: Laughing and swearing, Reese and Malcolm both get rat-bitten from their fingertips to their elbows; the experiment results only in a stinkbug quivering violently and a rat throwing up; and when they return, smelling like rat vomit, to their lunch table, Reese's beaten-up math book is gone.

It was, they agree without having to think about it, entirely worth it.

:--:--:

Their nights are decidedly more uniform. On Thursday evening they fall easily into routine.

It starts with them getting home. Reese immediately goes to the cupboard or the fridge, taking advantage of their 20-minute leeway to get started on his own dinner. Malcolm figures he could talk Reese into making something for him, too, and he considers asking. Ultimately he goes to his staple food of cereal with cold milk instead of the possibility of taking a hit to his pride that would come if Reese decided to make giving him food conditional.

By the time their mom gets home they're both finished eating and are sitting up in their room, both of them on their bed, jabbering excitedly about nothing in particular. Reese says something kind of stupid but really funny, and Malcolm's stomach flip-flops in a way that he chalks up to it being milk-logged. They keep on talking about plans, who they hate, who hates them but really shouldn't, how they're going to get to Burning Man, until they hear a fervent knocking on the front door and an annoyed yell--

"For the last time, Hal, I don't know Morse code!" from their mother.

They only heard their dad's responding inquiry, "Are they gone?" once, because he asked too loudly on Tuesday and his voice drifted down the hall, but heard it so clearly then that they can fill in his now-whispered question. Their hearts ache sharply each time their minds fill in the blank, but they can't make themselves leave it as silence. They laugh it off-

Malcolm: "God, Dad's a dork."

Reese: "Seriously."

But conversation is stained after this, leaving them to instead listen to their parents and Dewey have dinner, waiting for their dad to say something positive about them.

He doesn't.

Were it their mom's attention they were vying for, they'd act masochistically, misbehaving until she couldn't ignore them. But they've rarely fallen out of favor with their dad, and even more rarely did a day or two of separation not patch the rift. So Reese and Malcolm cast 'What should we do?' glances at each other. They come up as empty as they have for the rest of the week. They sit on their bed quietly, waiting awkwardly until the family puts itself to bed so they can all get up in the morning and start all over again.

Going to sleep is usually where the night ends.

Thursday night, however, offers a variation to the routine.

Malcolm wakes up.

He leans over Reese to peer at the clock.

11:58.

His gut says to get up, so he does. He rolls over Reese and creeps from their room. He sneaks down the hall until he's standing outside of their parents' bedroom. It's a strange intuition that gives him only enough information to make his intestines knot up with anticipatory fear. He presses his ear against the bedroom door--

"Hey."

Malcolm spins around. His heart pounds in his temples. His breath catches in his throat. He can feel the logic dispel the fear; Calm down, his frontal lobes tell his amygdala, calm down, it's just Reese. He relaxes.

Reese nods towards the bedroom door. "What you doing?"

"Listening to Mom and Dad," Malcolm whispers.

"Perv."

Malcolm elbows Reese in the ribs. "Shhh."

Malcolm's ear is back to the door. He grips Reese's wrist, ready to drag them both back to their room if he hears footsteps.

Their dad, "It's just they're both such good boys, Lois. Malcolm's so smart and Reese is…such a good cook. They have their whole lives ahead of them!"

Their mom, "Yes, they are. And yes, they do." a 'So?' is left unspoken.

"Do you know what will happen to them if something like this gets out?" Malcolm hears his dad blow a raspberry. "Zip! Nada! Zilch-o! They'll have nothing! Do you really want them living with us 'til they're forty, Lois? Do you?" There's a stretch of silence before, sounding a little broken, "Do you know what people might _do to them_?" Another stretch of silence, a sniffle, then his voice strengthens, "They aren't exactly winning any popularity contests, now."

"Hal…" A sigh. "What has any of this got to do with you hiding in our backyard?"

No response.

"Wouldn't you rather be spending time inside, in a nice warm house, with your family?"

"I can't look at them…I feel like, like I've failed--"

Not noticing Reese had leaned over him to press his own ear to the door, Malcolm bumps into his brother when he tries to back away.

"I think they might start…_y'know_, soon," Malcolm says as an excuse; he really can't stand to hear any more. Reese bolts from the door and is in their room in an instant. Malcolm follows as quickly as he can.

If he stood at the door just a moment longer, he would have heard his mother promise to take care of everything tomorrow.

:--:--:

The next day, Malcolm and Reese again separate themselves from the Krelboynes.

"I think we should do something nice for Dad," Malcolm says when they're seated.

Being nice to the family is one thing. Talking about being nice to the family is another; Reese turns in his seat and slugs Malcolm in the shoulder. He nods. "Me, too."

Malcolm quickly punches him back. "Okay, then, what do we do?"

Reese shrugs.

"Maybe we should just give this up?" Malcolm asks, scooting a little closer to Reese. When there's no response other than Reese looking away, he pushes on, "We can't just tell the truth, that would make everything worse. Okay, got it: I'll tell Mom we were working on a Psychology project. That you were helping me explore the taboos of our current social construct and their affects on us as a people. No, wait," Malcolm rushes an addendum, "She'd probably just ask Mr. Herkabe about it at the next parent-teacher conference, and then he'd probably blast it all over school on that stupid PA." Since it won't come to fruition, Malcolm doesn't bother worrying about how he'd explain it containing Psychology, a class he isn't slated to take until next year.

"Yeah. Plus, me helping you with homework? Come on, I thought you were smart."

In spite of his monologue being about both of them, Malcolm looks at Reese like he'd entirely forgotten there was someone besides himself at the table. His head tilts and he waves his hands dismissively. "Oh, yeah, rag on me. I don't see you coming up with any bright ideas."

"This was my idea."

"Exactly."

They both look away from each other again.

Emotional intuition he usually lacks makes Malcolm regret having said it.

The action having been ingrained in him for the past few days, he instinctively grabs Reese's hand to connect them.

" 'Mo," Reese mutters. He doesn't break the grip.

"We'll think of something," Malcolm says confidently. They look at each other out of the corners of their eyes. The moment is awkwardly lingering, held between their palms. Malcolm takes his hand back.

Not used to tending to emotions, they think of nothing nice they can do for their dad.

:--:--:

These friendly alterations last from their first lunch together, starting 12:15 on Tuesday afternoon, and end at 4:03 P.M. on Friday, at which point their mother walks through the door and says pleasantly upon spotting them, "You both did so well this week. I'm so proud of you both-- you know, I thought this was going to be a bad idea, but it turns out you're perfect for each other."

Malcolm and Reese, settled together on the couch as they think some more about what to do about their dad, look at her, realizing two things: They're sitting in front of a turned-on television even though they're grounded and their mother just complimented them.

In a moment of sick dawning, they realize they have been set up; that their mother had effectively orchestrated every movement of their week. They're first glad for the distraction from their dad, then hate their mom for trapping them, and finally hate each other for not identifying it as a trap. Malcolm loudly bemoans it as a plot to make them be nice to each other.

This makes complete sense to Reese.

They decide to make up for lost time, instantly kicking; hitting; biting; clawing any piece of the other's flesh they can.

Lois looks down on them with a smile.

:--:--:--:

His mother's plan, which had made complete sense to him in the living room, is seeming incomplete by the time Malcolm reaches his own room. He tries drumming up support from Dewey and Reese by saying it out loud. They agree with him the first time on all of it-- how they had tried to manipulate their mother by pretending to be a couple, and how she wound up manipulating their manipulation, going along with them in an attempt to get them to be nice to each other. How she had then spoiled her success on purpose because, although she did like natural peace, she liked being able to control chaos even more; she needed them to be unruly just as much as they wanted to be.

Really, they say, it makes sense.

It nags on Malcolm as being wrong, somehow, wrongwrongwrong, so he repeats it out loud as he paces the room. He's talking to himself but wanting the input of his audience, looking for the piece that's missing. Dewey gets annoyed the second time he starts going over it and attempts to block Malcolm out by reading. Reese, having been as much a part of the trap as Malcolm, continues to assure him up through the fifth repetition, getting up and punching him on the sixth. More perceptive than usual, Malcolm takes the hint and shuts up.

"I don't see how it matters if Mom did make you," Dewey says sagely over the top of his book, "you spend all your free time together, anyway." It's asking for trouble, or at least asking for Malcolm to start going over it again, but Dewey can't help himself.

Malcolm, one eye swelled from his fight with Reese, squints at Dewey. "We do not."

Dewey stares back at his brother for a long moment. He closes his book deliberately and puts it aside. Standing up, he says, "All right, let's try a little exercise, shall we?" He folds his arms behind his back. He begins to pace in front of his brothers. "Reese, who were you with last weekend?"

"Malcolm."

Dewey looks to Malcolm. "Who were you with the weekend before that?"

"Reese."

Dewey steps closer to Malcolm. More forcefully he asks, "The weekend before that?"

"Reese."

Dewey is right in front of Malcolm, standing on tip-toe to stare him in the eye. Dewey roars, "The weekend before _that_?"

"Stevie!" Malcolm responds triumphantly. Dewey stares so contemptuously at him that Malcolm feels his face go hot. "…and Reese."

Dewey drops back to being flat-footed on the floor, turning away in disgust. His mouth drawn, his eyes stony, he scans the room as though looking at a jury. He enunciates each word distinctly: "I rest my case."

Not willing to let it go, Malcolm presses, "Come on, Dewey, that doesn't even count_._ We've been grounded like, what, _half of our lives_? For Christ sakes, we're grounded right now. This should tell you something about how _very often _we see the outside world. Of _course _we're going to hang out together! We're stuck here. No one in, no one out. It's not like have a _choice _or anything, it's not like I can just get up and _walk _to Stevie's house; it's not like he could just get up and _walk _to --I didn't mean it like that, but you get my point."

"You're being very sarcastic," Dewey says levelly.

Malcolm gives Dewey the most devastating stare he can manage. "Good catch. So what?"

"So you're only this sarcastic when there's something you don't want to face." Between this having an inkling of truth and Dewey being a naturally good liar, there is nothing in Dewey's eyes to give him away. "Something like how you really do like Reese."

"I do not," Malcolm answers with a scoff. "That's just dumb, Dewey. And gross."

"Gross? Why would it be gross? Oh." He pauses as though a sudden realization hit him. "I never said _like _like. You made that up by yourself. Boy, you're even more repressed than I thought."

Malcolm splutters hopelessly, then sits on his and Reese's bed in silence. Dewey watches gleefully as Malcolm's paranoia gnaws at him.

Having zoned out of Malcolm and Dewey's conversation and back in once everything went abruptly silent, Reese asks, "So, we broken up or what?"

"Huh?" Malcolm yelps, horrified.

For being so close to giggling, Dewey keeps a remarkably blank face.

Malcolm stumbles, "Oh, um, y-yeah, we might as well; we pretty much told Mom we're--"

This is the last piece of the puzzle; Malcolm's proposition of his mother's idea goes from mildly cunning to conniving. Excitedly, Malcolm puts it into place for his brothers: "She knew I would think that! She wanted us to break up!" He's lost them, so he backtracks and explains again, both put off by and enjoying having to do so.

Reese declares war.

Malcolm, smiling, says he already has the first strike.


	3. War Games

"The great battles of history," Malcolm explains, "were composed of three-pronged attacks." Really, he says, if their grandpa's Civil War lessons taught him anything, it was the most effective way to annihilate people. So _that_ is precisely what they must do. He adds the disclaimer, "Of course, Mom's not normal people, so this might not be a kill shot," before moving on to the steps of his plan:

"Phase one: Making up in front of Mom.

Phase two: Being more romantic.

Phase three: Getting Dad on our side.

"The rest's okay and we need it so Mom can't convince Dad we're faking, but the last part's the doozy," he adds proudly. "We won't have to worry about making up with Dad."

"Why would we make up?" Reese frowns. "We never make up."

This was true. They'd been in a continuingly escalating fight since childhood. To sincerely apologize for any act would taint the purity of their vengeance.

"That's why! We want Mom to be suspicious. We need to give her something big enough let her know that this is _all out war _without us saying it. We need to let her know we know what she's up to and we're _not _giving up. But it also has to be something small enough she'll be wondering what we've really got planned. We'll give her time to stew in the interim between phases one and two. She'll be worked up into a total frenzy by the time we win, but it'll just make our victory all the sweeter."

"Do you really want Mom worked into a frenzy?"

Malcolm looks to Dewey. "Why not? She won't be able to touch us, so she'll only really nail you."

Dewey frowns. "You know, I could just tell her everything right now."

"Okay, okay. We'll get you immunity somehow. If she gets you, we'll make up for it. Anything you want. Deal?" Malcolm sticks his hand out to Dewey, who takes it readily.

Reese muses, "If Dewey busted a bone or something, I bet she'd mostly lay off him."

"No!" Malcolm says forcefully, "She'd come down on us, then."

"I thought you said she couldn't get mad at us?" Reese asks exasperatedly.

"About _this_. She can, and will, about anything else. Anything. Way harder than she's ever come down on us in our entire lives. So we've got to make sure we don't do anything stupid for the next two weeks, at least."

"Yeah," says Reese with a derisive laugh, "How do you expect us to manage that?"

After quite a bit of thought, Malcolm finally decides. "If we _have _to do something stupid, it has to be something Mom won't find out about."

**Phase one: Making up in front of Mom**

Saturday, 0800 hours.

"I'm sorry I got so mad at you yesterday," Malcolm gushes. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Reese answers, sounding very sincere.

Their mother, who is usually off on Saturday and therefore usually in bed, watches them indifferently as she prepares to work overtime. "Here comes the kiss," she says.

"What?" asks Malcolm, turning about.

"That is what you're trying to invoke here, right? 'Kiss and make up'? Well, let's have it."

When Malcolm turns back around, he is surprised to see Reese's lips already starting to pucker. He hesitates, and starts to say it's not a literal expression, but as had been done before, Reese kisses him before he can actually back out of it.

"Nice. _Very_ convincing. Now, listen. I'm going to work now, and I want you boys to leave the house at least enough for your father to come in, eat, and use the toilet. If he wants to spend all hours of the day in the backyard that's his business, but there are some things I will not have him doing out there."

The door shuts.

Malcolm, recognizing that it seems phase one was a failure, prepares to defend it from Reese; their mother often plays it cool when things are really driving her nuts, after all, he'll say. Reese, however, doesn't seem to mind in the slightest that it hadn't worked out as it was supposed to. He drops onto the couch like a bag of bricks and turns on some Saturday morning cartoons.

**Phase two: Being more romantic**

Sunday, 0730 hours.

Phase two turns out to be if not successful then at least less of a failure.

When she sees Reese walking with a tray (which, through the simple virtue of being in their house, has lost a leg) filled with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and a cup of orange juice, Lois sticks out her arm, catching him right in the throat. Miraculously, aside from a drop of juice sliding down the side of the glass, everything stays in place.

"What are you doing?"

"Bringing Malcolm breakfast in bed," Reese responds indignantly. He ducks her arm and continues on his way. Lois seethes silently, glaring at Reese's retreating back.

With one of Malcolm's textbooks shoved in place of the broken leg, Reese sets the tray down on a cluttered desktop. He walks quietly over to his bed, where Malcolm is still sleeping with one leg stuck over the edge. Reese smiles down at him fondly.

He punches Malcolm square in the chest with all the force he can muster.

Malcolm reels up with a sharp, wheezing inhale.

Reese giggles madly.

Without waiting to regain his lost air, Malcolm rushes out breathlessly, "What'd you do that for?"

"Breakfast."

In his sleep hazed mind, Malcolm forgets how their mother hasn't cooked anything for them in a week, how he's been existing mostly on cereal, "How come Mom didn't--"

"I made it."

When Reese returns with the tray, Malcolm slides over so they can sit together. He sniffs the food. Even though it's simply because it smells wonderful, when Reese looks at him quizzically, Malcolm's compelled by the voice in his head that always tells him to prove his intelligence; his wit; his worth, to say, "Smelling for almonds."

"Almonds?"

"It's an identifying factor of cy--." A feeling of something akin to embarrassment stalls him. "You know what, never mind. Thanks a lot. This is really nice."

"No problem."

They smile at each other.

For what could very well be the first time, they share food without someone being stabbed with a fork.

:--:--:--:

Sunday, 1730 hours.

The breakfast worked so well at angering their mother that Reese suggests a date.

At least, Malcolm thinks it's because the breakfast went well. Their mom had sputtered at them hopelessly for a long while when they both came to the kitchen happy and sated, and finally out of desperation ripped into them for the fact that they aren't supposed to eat food in their room; if there's so much as one crumb, so help her--. But he can't tell for sure; Reese just grabs his elbow, says, "Let's go out." and Malcolm finds himself answering, "Okay."

They decide the first place they ought to go is the movies. They can go together without much risk of being called 'gay' and there's a new horror movie that's had enough buzz that they've heard about it even though they only pal around with Krelboynes--who need nightlights after seeing trailers for such films--and each other.

_All right, so it's Reese. No date is going to be _ _ **fun** _ _, but, hey, at least this way I get to go Dutch._

They sit together nervously, being certain not to let their arms touch on the armrest or their feet bump into each other's on the ground. They're huddled up, twiddling their thumbs, with faces drawn tight, until finally, Malcolm ventures half-an-hour in, "Zombies. Come on. You don't even have to run. Yeah, okay, you're in a store and therefore potentially trapped, but you can out_-walk _them."

Reese agrees emphatically. "I'd just get on one of the scooters they have for cripples and fat guys."

They talk through most of the movie. They start by giving the protagonist murder tips and then somehow wind up on their own lives:

"What're you going to do after college?" Reese asks.

"I dunno," Malcolm answers, taken aback by the interest, "I could do a lot, according to the aptitude test I took. Surgeon, aerospace technician. That's the kind of thing I think Mom wants me to do, anyway."

"What do you want to do?"

"Something…" Malcolm's voice catches on his embarrassment. He looks at Reese carefully. "Normal."

He stares deliberately down at the screen.

It's unnecessary to elaborate how, if only due to pubescent dramatics, he'd prefer to be ostracized in a career he could easily excel in by those who strive for mere competence to the possibility of being ostracized in a career that stimulates his mind by those who should in all rights be his intellectual peers but could, in fact, be superior to him. It's unnecessary to elaborate because Reese understands-- they have certain qualities that put them above everyone they know at school, positively or not, and they take refuge in being able to blame their being social misfits on everyone else's jealousies and insecurities. To lose this would be to lose a safety net beneath a tightrope; although they could walk across unscathed, there is still the horrible possibility of falling to their deaths.

Reese says he maybe wants to be a wrestler, so long as he doesn't have to go against any girls.

"Not a chef?"

"I'd have to let other people decide what I'd make." Reese shakes his head. "Besides, it's only really fun when I'm cooking for you guys."

"You could piss in the food when customers tick you off."

"You don't get it." Reese stares at him for a while. "What's some famous art guy?"

"Michelangelo."

Reese frowns at him. "A real one."

"Raphael."

"Dude, come on, I'm trying to make a point. I _know _the 'Turtles', I'm not stupid. Name a real one."

Malcolm quirks a grin at him. "Da Vinci," he says. He chuckles under his breath, in a way that's surprisingly lacking patronization, when Reese accepts this one.

"Okay, you wouldn't draw mustaches on Da Vinci just because some kid in a museum's a jackass." After a pause, he says accusatorily, "It would've sounded better if it didn't take so long to say." He jabs Malcolm with his elbow for accentuation.

"No," says Malcolm, settling into his seat. "No, I get it. That's…I didn't know it meant so much."

"Yeah, well."

They segue into a new conversation by Reese kicking Malcolm in the ankle and Malcolm reciprocating.

They keep talking until they start to think they might know more about each other than they should; until the warmth in their stomachs and the shine in their eyes begins to feel misplaced, at which point Malcolm says he has an idea.

They go to the bathroom and fill their bucket, still half-loaded with popcorn, with just enough hot water to achieve the consistency of chunky soup after the popcorn wetly expands. They then sneak back up into the balcony of the theater. Malcolm busies himself with breaking up the pieces of soggy popcorn by spinning his hand quickly in the bucket while they wait.

When the next disgusting, bloody, throat-ripping part of the movie comes up (it takes just long enough to appear for the water in their bucket to go from hot to warm and the popcorn to be disintegrated to mush), Malcolm grins and urges, "Now, now."

Reese clears his throat and starts to make the appropriate sounds.

He gags first.

The patrons below pay them no mind.

He releases a series of several gasping, 'bleugh' sounds next.

One or two people look about, but the movie screen doesn't offer them enough light to see.

Finally, he lets loose the horrifying and recognizable sound of someone vomiting violently.

Malcolm dumps the warm popcorn soup onto the heads of the viewers below.

The chain reaction this sets off is one Malcolm and Reese thoroughly enjoy but is nonetheless also one they agree they'll never to try to replicate.

:--:--:--:

Sunday, 2000 hours

The movie isn't actually over, but it is for them. They're laughing madly with arms thrown around each other's shoulders, sickened and pleased. They offer each other assurances: It was on the other side of town and it was fun; Mom will never find out and it doesn't really matter if they have a lifetime ban.

"I'm hungry," says Reese, when they've wound down from hysterical to simply glowing. "Let's get some food." He points to a well-lit restaurant-and-store combination that has a large sign reading 'No shoes, no shirt, no service!' out front, clearly indicating that it's a classy place.

A leftover snicker escapes Malcolm, tickling Reese's ear. "I don't have any more money."

"That's okay--"

"No, if you pay that makes me the girl. I'll owe you half."

"An Indian burn and we're even."

Malcolm, grinning, pulls himself away and offers Reese his arm. Once his forearm is sufficiently reddened and aching, he says, "I thought you didn't have any money? Do you already have a job? Did you think I'd make you pay the whole hundred to Mom this month, is that why you didn't tell me? I wouldn't do that…. Do you have a job?" he repeats.

"Kind of."

"I better get one, then. I guess I could tutor or something. What're you doing?"

"Don't ask."

"Is it legal?"

"Knowing makes you an accomplice," Reese says as he hauls them both across the street. They rush in front of several lanes of traffic to get to the restaurant on the other side. One horn's still blaring at them when they're safely across.

Malcolm dismisses his brother's last comment to scold, "Jesus, Reese, there was a crosswalk _right there_." He intends complete seriousness, but looking at Reese he can't help himself; he lets loose a strange hiccupping laugh that fills his cheeks and is tearing out of his mouth before he can stop it, his forehead landing softly against Reese's shoulder. He quiets. He realizes he can feel Reese's breath in his hair. "You know, I don't think so much when I'm with you," he says with appropriate absentmindedness, "It's peaceful."

He can't really explain what it's like being able to stop thinking when he's talking to someone who excels in that regard. What it's like to have a thousand thoughts cut down to two or three, a million voices all his own quieted enough so that he can actually hear himself think, so he doesn't try. He just straightens up and walks with Reese into the restaurant.

_:--:--:--:_

**Phase three: Winning over Dad**

Monday, 1600 hours

The first step is to trap their father inside, where he can't elude them. Monday after school while their mother's out shopping, they ensnare Hal in a less literal way than Reese proposes ("We have that big net from the time Dad wanted to be a fisherman…"):

Reese pulls a sweet-smelling pie from the oven, sets it on the kitchen table, and moves toward the back door. Malcolm sets the fan--which is missing two of its five blades from that time he, Dewey, and Reese spent an afternoon sticking various body parts between the slots-- behind the pie, making sure it faces the back door as well as it can. He makes sure the extension cord is securely attached between fan and outlet.

Reese nods at him.

Malcolm nods back.

The door is yanked open and the fan is clicked on.

Reese hides behind the door while Malcolm makes a scrabbling dash for the living room.

Almost the second after they're securely hidden, Hal's head pokes in through the door. He looks carefully left; right. He creeps in, eyes on the pie, his nose sniffing, his hands held in front of his chest as though he is attempting to personify a mouse. He rushes stealthily to the pie.

The door slams shut.

Hal wheels about, spotting Reese. With a yelp, he spins back around to make a getaway out the front door. Malcolm blocks his escape. Hal spins about one or two more times, then stops, letting loose the exclamation, "Oh, _damn _it!", accentuated with a stomp of his right foot, to no one in particular.

Hal slumps into the nearest chair, his left arm lying flat and his right elbow propped on the table with his hand blocking his eyes from view.

"Dad," Malcolm says. He reaches across the table to pull Hal's arm down flat on it. Hal's other arm springs up immediately, the left hand taking over for the right to cover his eyes. Malcolm sighs but lets go.

After a long, silent minute, Hal's right hand creeps toward the center of the table…

Reese smacks his hand. "No pie until you talk to us."

Hal lets out a tortured groan.

"Dad, we figured we'd tell you…We were making it all up," Malcolm says.

"That's fantastic!" Hal brightens immediately. "Oh, I'm so happy. I just knew you boys couldn't be--"

"We were making it up. We're not now. We were just trying to get Mom mad to start with, but the more time we spent together, the more we realized…we weren't faking."

Hal's face falls. To his credit he only allows out a single sad whimper before he manages to collect himself. "You know, it's a cruel world out there. It's a bully. It'll sneak up and steal your lunch money with the slightest provocation. Now, you boys have had it pretty good; you've always had some redeeming quality that kept the world from pantsing you and pushing you in the ladies' locker room, too. But at some point…you're just asking for it. Don't you--don't you even care about that?"

No response from his sons.

Hal continues, "Reese, I can understand how you could be so blasé about screwing up your entire life." Reese accepts this good-naturedly. "But you, Malcolm." Hal's forehead is furrowed. "Don't you care about the future?" At Malcolm's unresponsiveness, Hal tries a last-ditch effort, "Don't you even care what your mother and I have to say about all this?"

Reese stares at his father evenly. "Did you care what your parents had to say about you and Mom?"

"Reese," Malcolm mutters to his brother in a stern but belated warning. He sighs and looks back to his father, knowing what the outcome will be.

Hal's lower lip wobbles; his eyes cloud ever-so-slightly, and they know he's on their side.

_I know, why should I care if Reese saved our butts by saying that? _

_Here's the thing-- Dad's love of Mom is his Achilles' heel. Reese and I've been waiting _ _ **years** _ _ for the chance to exploit it. We figured out that this is the kind of thing we each can use against him one time without Dad getting suspicious, and now Reese wasted both of our turns. It kind of sucks; I was hoping to use mine on a girl with a Mohawk, a bunch of piercings, and an affinity for swearing. _

He's only weeping a little, not openly bawling-- besides which, he's always been so emotional that they ought to be used to it-- but Malcolm and Reese politely look away when their father starts crying enough to get his cheeks wet. It inspires a feeling of such indecency, of vague disgust littered with empathy, the sort of feeling that comes when you walk in on someone using the bathroom, that there's really no other response.

"At least I won't have to worry about any more in-laws," Hal says as he wipes his eyes. "Well!" he slaps his hands onto his knees. With one final sniff he completes his rebound, "How would you boys like to come outside to see my project?"

"Your…project?" Malcolm asks.

"I had to have something to do while I was outside. Reese, get your brother; I'm sure he'll get a kick out of it."

Hal cuts himself a slice of pie the second Reese is out of the room.


	4. Take a Chance

_Mom's going to spend the next week or two on bed rest._

_Because we're killing the baby._

_She's yelled this at us about a hundred times. Just in case we didn't catch it the first hundred when she was telling us at a _ _ **regular ** _ _decibel level. _

_She was supposed to go to Aunt Susan's, but she's kind of in this crazy hormone-swing and after she saw what Dad did to the backyard she didn't really want to leave him alone with us. I think maybe she was just saying that so she wouldn't have to go, though-- Aunt Susan stresses Mom out almost more than we do._

_Anyway, Mom's laid up and Dad's working weekends to make up for it. Mom gave us a whole bunch of what-to-do's and what-not-to-do's, but Dad says he doesn't care so long as we can keep Mom in the dark and listen to him once he gets home from work. _

_It'd be wrong not to celebrate_.

Unfortunately, most of their best ideas come to them when they're not actually allowed to do anything. Given free rein tends to make them lose their incentive.

The only thing they come up with is watching television they're usually disallowed to:

"Let's see if there's something really good on," Reese suggests with lifted eyebrows.

Dewey asks if they're going to watch cartoons, to which Malcolm and Reese share a look that clearly means a patronizing 'Oh, kids.'

It's an all right idea. Reese flicks through the channels with the volume low, sneaking glances at the hallway in case their mother decides to amble out.

She doesn't. They reach their destination without interruption.

Frankly their TV doesn't get the really good porn until after midnight, which makes this endeavor fruitless; they wind up with something that from actors to makeup to lighting looks hilariously cheap, like a group of friends decided to shoot it in their basement with someone's home video camera. All they get out of it is Reese saying 'Lookit her boobs.', Dewey saying he **knows **about sex but dear God what are they doing, and Malcolm emulating any one of the many girls by throwing out some keening, mocking moans.

Malcolm is in the throes of an imaginary orgasm when Reese suddenly turns off the TV.

Reese explains tightly, "We've got a couple hours of being totally unwatched. We should do something better."

Malcolm shrugs. Knowing their dad will probably be home before they are, he turns on the television just in time to see the woman finish up her own fake orgasm, changes the channel to something wholesome enough to be caught watching, and turns it back off.

He and Dewey hop off the couch to follow Reese.

:--:--:--:

The policeman is nice enough to escort them back home.

Apparently making Dewey tear loose with bloodcurdling screams while he hid out down the hall from the pediatrics ward in the hospital could be considered, in addition to being hilariously terrifying to little children on their first doctor's visit, very slightly illegal.

"Now we know," Reese said with a shrug after having all this explained to him.

"Oh, geez." Hal sighs as he opens the door to three grinning sons and an apathetic police officer. "Thanks, Tom."

Their father yells at them the instant the door is closed. It's a babbling rage that makes virtually no sense. They recognize his ire as being due to him preemptively suffering from not being able to have sex with their mom for a week or more-- a fact that would be almost sweet were it not so entirely horrifying.

They're sent to their room, where they're to stay until their mother is well again.

"What about food?" Reese asks.

Their father considers it. Haughtily, he replies, "That's not my concern." and shuts their door with a flick of his wrist. This doesn't disturb his sons, who know it will be taken back by dinnertime.

Malcolm waits impatiently for the footsteps to fade down the hall before he wheels around, grips Reese by the shoulders and says, "This is great!" in a way that is meant to be a whisper but is just a bit too loud for it to actually count as one. Malcolm's strides across the room and yanks open the window, swinging a leg out with practiced ease. His ears twitch in response to a sound behind him to give it subconscious evaluation. It's nothing, so he relaxes. "Dewey, cover for us until we get back."

"Why should I?"

Malcolm ignores Dewey to ask Reese, "You want to handle it?"

Reese gives Malcolm a nod. He says to Dewey, "'Cause if you tell Mom or Dad, I'll cut your face off and use it as a mask every day. _Except _on Halloween; then I'll give it back to and you'll be so happy to have your face back that you'll go as yourself instead of wearing a costume, effectively ruining your life and doubly ruining trick'r'treating, too."

"Reese!" Malcolm shouts before Dewey can say anything.

Reese turns to him. "What?"

Malcolm frowns. "Dewey, do you believe him?"

"No."

Malcolm gesticulates wildly towards Dewey, telling Reese, "See, _that's_ 'what'. It has to be something you might actually do to him or it doesn't work." To Dewey, "Look, we'll get you a toy or something." Malcolm swings his other leg outside and hops out of the window. Reese quickly goes after him.

"I could just go out and get a toy myself, you know," Dewey tells them belatedly.

But he doesn't follow them.

:--:--:--:

Dewey doesn't sleep well when his brothers aren't back when he thinks they ought to be.

It's a silly sort of fear because for all the times any one of them has said 'This is definitely gonna kill us', it's never actually occurred to him that any of them could die. Besides which, they never gave him a timeline and Malcolm and Reese are both often out past midnight when they think they can get away with it; it probably shouldn't make a difference that they usually wait until they're supposed to be in bed before they sneak out. But it's a fear that is definitely real even though it's baseless. It begins as a restless itch in his legs that makes him pace their room back and forth. It then makes him talk to himself in annoyed mutterings about his brothers because it fills up the silence and allows him to be angry at them instead of worried for them.

Then he finally decides to just go to sleep, so he curls up in his blankets. This amounts to him staring out into the darkness, shivering at a partly-imagined cold and a very-real fear.

When he sees fingers sneak under the edge of the window that had been left cracked for his brothers to pry open, Dewey thinks it's a robber in spite of himself. He thinks of Reese saying on the topic, 'You're still cute, so they'd probably just tie you up.', then, when this didn't alleviate any of Dewey's concerns, he rolled his eyes and said he'd take care of anyone who broke into the house (and he did.) And maybe his fear is for himself as much as it is for Malcolm and Reese.

But then the window's open and Reese pulls himself inside. He turns around, stumbling, reaching out a hand for Malcolm. Malcolm nearly pulls Reese back through the window before managing to drag himself inside.

"Dewey awake?" Malcolm asks.

Reese appears not to have heard. Dewey closes his eyes nearly all the way, looking at his brothers through his eyelashes.

"Dewey?" Malcolm asks. He shrugs, tossing a bag in the general direction of Dewey's bed.

The desk light is on and Dewey can see that Reese and Malcolm's eyes are glassy-bright. Their faces are flushed. They're standing, wavering in tiny, tight circles about to fall but not yet sure of the direction they're going.

Dewey knows they're drunk.

"…party," Reese says.

He must have prefixed it with a 'Good' that Dewey didn't hear-- or perhaps Malcolm, being in a similar frame of mind, just understands-- because Malcolm answers, "Better if we'd been invited."

Malcolm wobbles forward into Reese.

Reese catches Malcolm by grabbing him by the hips.

"Think Dewey'll tell?" Malcolm asks, grabbing onto Reese's elbows.

Dewey wonders just what they're going to **do** when he realizes Malcolm's talking about ratting out their late-night outing.

"Dewey," Reese says.

Dewey wasn't moving much anyway, but he can feel himself freeze.

Reese just has to take time to go over his thought. "..thinks we're serious, right?…We could do like--"

Dewey eyes open a little wider when Reese leans forward and presses his lips against Malcolm's. When Reese pulls back, Malcolm leans forward, moving after the kiss most likely because of shifting balance.

Malcolm doesn't say anything. Dewey knows it's not for lack of ability; he and Reese have always found it hilarious that the one or two times that Malcolm's gotten absolutely wasted he maintained eloquence while walking into walls.

"…really gross him out," Reese says. "He'll _want_ us outta the house."

"Mmm. No, Reese," Malcolm murmurs.

Dewey watches as Malcolm raises his hand.

Malcolm makes an odd motion that Dewey thinks would only make sense if Reese were a girl with hair in her face. He brushes his fingers past the curve of Reese's cheekbone until he can bend his fingertips around the ridge of Reese's ear.

Malcolm hesitates there, palm cupped over Reese's cheek, then with a forceful, jerking movement makes his hand slide to the back of Reese's head. He hesitates there, too. From there Malcolm moves his hand down Reese's neck and finally onto the more neutral place of Reese's shoulder.

He leaves it there.

Malcolm sighs with what Dewey would call 'relief', like he had pretended away any intimacy of the moment simply by pushing through it.

:--:--:--:

Malcolm and Reese spend all of their time together for three weeks: They go to school together, eat together, then immediately sneak outside to do who-knows-what together, getting in just enough trouble the brief time they're inside that there's no way their dad will either let them venture out of their room or pacify enough to check on them and apologize. They must feel either a little sorry or a little nicer for it because they give Dewey knick-knacks when they sneak back inside and Dewey sees them putting money **into **their parents' 'secret stashes' a few times. They must not feel too sorry or too nice for it, because they threaten to punch him if he talks about them doing either.

On the nights they do stay home they talk incessantly, curled up together in bed with faces close and legs entangled. If Malcolm feels like talking about something that's impossible to dumb down, Reese will pull a dictionary (he'd thought it's only real use was a paperweight, before) and a flashlight out from under the bed, and if Reese feels like talking about something impossible to smarten up, Malcolm will turn off his brain. Mostly they talk somewhere in the middle about things that are more subjective than factual and which interest them both equally.

He'd only been teasing them before, so when Dewey accidentally thinks that his brothers might actually be good for each other he's fairly certain he'll have to scrub his brain out with soap.

:--:--:--:

Their mother deems herself well near the end of the third week, her stomach maybe a little rounder than before. Malcolm and Reese don't see her up and about until after school, when she greets them at their bedroom door. The first thing does is ask them for their rent ('You didn't think I _forgot_, did you?'). Reese hands it over. She counts it in spite of Malcolm's protests that they wouldn't try to cheat her.

She pockets the money and moves onto the next topic:

"Well. Your father seems to think I've been unreasonable towards you two."

Their mother sits beside them on their bed. She's not so far along that she has to spread her legs and brace herself to sit down, but she does it anyway. Malcolm and Reese glance at each other; it's definitely a ploy at sympathy, they agree silently. They sit beside her.

"We don't think that. You have every right to be incredibly suspicious of your sons' motivations. You especially have a right to question their innermost emotions." Malcolm says. He and Reese look at her with exaggerated, wide-eyed innocence.

Their mother pats her stomach.

And damn it if that little action doesn't cause an inkling of guilt in spite of them both.

"There's no reason to be snippy. He might be right; I may have been a little…hormonal. So. I give up. I surrender; I can't be picking fights with you boys in my condition, anyway. I do, however, want to know how long you'd kept this from me; you know secrets aren't allowed in this house."

"Couple weeks," Reese answers automatically.

"Then next week will make it two months?"

"Right," Malcolm affirms.

"I'm impressed." She stands using the same wide-legged sumo-wrestler stance. Malcolm and Reese awkwardly stand with her as though to help, but unless she wants them to shout encouragement from the sidelines, they've really got nothing. "I'll see you tonight at dinner."

Not having had dinner with their family in over a month, Malcolm tries to guess as what's wrong with their mother:

"Think maybe she's losing her touch, being pregnant?"

"No way. Remember when she was about to bust with Dewey and I called her a blimp? Never think ladders slow Mom down, even if she does waddle."

They run through several more ideas and in the end the most logical solution is Reese's: their mother has been replaced with a pod person.

:--:--:--:

The following Sunday she tells them to put on their best suits.

"Someone die?" Reese asks. "…Where's Dewey?"

"There's a new family in town. Dewey's spending the night. Now get dressed."

So they dress in their best suits, which had at some point been a dead or richer person's worst suits, their mother fusses with their clothes and tries to get Malcolm's cowlick down with a spit-slicked thumb, their father watches it all with a combination of excitement and dread, and they're on their way.

:--:--:--:

They arrive at a restaurant that has all it takes to be high-end except for the class: there're dressed-up waiters, a man on a violin, a tank full of live lobsters, a bar, and a buffet, but with bright lights and loud talk it still manages to feel more like a McDonald's than something to put on their good suits for.

Malcolm and Reese sit down with their father while their mother pulls a woman aside.

"Excuse me," their mother says, "I called ahead, about the violin." She points Malcolm and Reese out to the woman, "It's their anniversary."

"Oh, that's sweet," the woman answers politely. She confirms Lois' request, requests 'just a sec', and disappears.

Malcolm gapes.

Reese pays no mind.

Their father whistles nonchalantly.

Their mother sits down.

"You brought us here to embarrass us," Malcolm stage whispers to her, horrified.

"I'm trying to support you."

"There's nothing to support!" Malcolm exclaims. His mother lifts her eyebrows in victorious feigned surprise. She begins her prepared reprimand; they worried their father over nonsense, and what's worse they lied to their entire family. Malcolm recants, interrupting her. "I just mean it's not serious. We haven't done anything more than kiss."

"Malcolm. You can't judge a relationship's intensity by its sex," Lois mothers instinctively. She backtracks to fit the situation at hand, which deserves false advice for being itself a falsehood. "Still, I don't see why not. It's not like you're hiding anything. You two've seen each other naked every day since you were born."

Malcolm sinks, turtle-like, into himself as he contorts something like a smile at the disturbed passerby. Strangely, despite his sliding deeper into his seat, his voice grows more argumentative. "Has it occurred to you that _maybe _we're holding back so we don't _embarrass _you? That maybe we're showing you the common courtesy you never show us?"

"Don't try to claim decency. Weren't you the one who did nothing but play tonsil hockey with that girl--what's her name? The plain one. Sarah."

"Sarah was not plain. And this is totally different. Sarah wasn't my--" Achingly aware of the people sitting around them, he finishes with, "Reese."

"That makes a difference? Name one time, _just one_, that you two have ever tried to keep from embarrassing your father and me."

Calmly ignoring all of this, Hal hails a waiter.

"Now, I know this one costs the most," says Hal, pointing to an item on the menu, "But which one has the highest alcohol content?"

Malcolm, not really able to come up with an answer, looks to Reese.

"What I'm saying is, if we were in a place where all these," Hal runs a finger up and down the section, "came in jugs, which one would have the most 'X's on the label?"

Reese, having been scrutinizing the lobster lounging about in a tank by the wall, and long having grown used to such things besides, hadn't even noticed Malcolm and their mother were fighting. He mutters out of the side of his mouth to Malcolm, "You know, that fat guy at the buffet has sweat pants. I figure they still have a bit more stretch to 'em... It costs less if you want to keep the lobster alive, right?"

If Malcolm comprehends this he doesn't acknowledge it.

The violinist steps beside their table, nodding a hello to them all.

He challenges his mother quickly. "All right. All right. You want embarrassment, fine. You want us to be indecent, fine." Malcolm stands on his booth's seat, hauling Reese up by a shoulder to stand alongside him. He picks up his glass of water with his other hand. "I'll give you embarrassment. I'll give you indecency."

Reese keeps up his own conversation with Malcolm without encouragement. "Hand me one of the rolls." He gestures to the bowl of complimentary bread on the table. "I've got a clear shot of the dude carrying the soup."

"I'll go pull the car around," Hal says.

Lois touches her husband's arm to stop him. "No, Hal, wait."

Reese picks up the bowl himself. He throws a roll. He mutters, "Damn, missed."

"Reese," Lois warns. But her eyes are on Malcolm.

"I'd like to make a toast to my mother."

Malcolm speaks loudly, but it wouldn't matter if he didn't; the room is small and intimate; his voice carries to every corner. Everybody puts their forks down and looks at him. They seem strangely to do it first out of polite curiosity.

"But I think…I need to say something, first."

Malcolm hopes he imagines the collective sigh as they realize it's just some kid acting like an idiot.

"This," Malcolm pats Reese's shoulder, "is my brother."

The violinist begins to perform a soft, dramatic song.

The truth of the matter is that for all his talking, all his complaining, Malcolm's never been good speaking in front of people this way. It's not having an audience per se, because he tends to hold an unreceptive audience no matter where he talks. It's being isolated, where he can't pretend people are with him rather than around him. It makes his throat dry and his stomach turn. He's highly perceptive of the crowd members' expressions. They are, like always, more disdainful than he thinks they have any right to be. Were it not for his mother looking up at him he would sit down with a weak wave and a, 'Sorry for bothering you. Keep eating.' Instead he breathes deep, swallowing the lump in his throat as well as a good chunk of pride. "And we're in love." The response to this is certainly not imagined. Malcolm shifts uneasily. He subconsciously bends at the knees, his brain urging him to sit down and shut up. He forces himself to stand up tall. "You have to hand it to my parents; I thought they'd disown us when they found out how we felt about each other.

"We kept trying to fight it, knowing how it'd reflect on them and on us. The emotional connection was easier to ignore; we don't talk about our feelings anyway, so wasn't really anything different. We could've faked that, if it had only been that. But the actual longing, the need--" he surveys the crowd, including them, "You know." he has to move his gaze from one face to the next quickly; if he looks at one damning face for too long, he knows he'll bust out with 'Haha, just kidding! We really are horrible people, if that makes you feel better. Just not in the way you think.'

Malcolm licks his lips before continuing. The lie wheels through in his head, grasping at truths for leverage. "We had to try harder to restrain from the physicality that such a relationship usually comes with. But then, our mother…." he looks lovingly down at her. He gestures at her with his glass. "She told us to go ahead, hold hands. Kiss. Even when she encouraged us," He sees a waiter talking to a bulky man near the entranceway of the kitchen, so he speeds up, "we still fought her for what we perceived as normalcy.

"But she continued to support us. She brought us here, not just to show she accepts us, but to _celebrate _us. As we are, as her sons."

The bulky man is striding towards their table. Malcolm talks even faster; beneath his voice the violinist begins a crescendo:

"And we've realized she's right! We shouldn't care what society dubs 'normal', for what is normalcy, really? In the most restrictive terms, _who_ is normal? So we've decided to finally express the physical manifestation of our love! When we get home, for the first time, my brother and I are going to have passionate, mind-blowing _sex_!" Perhaps he was speaking too hurriedly to be wholly understood but there's no doubt that this proclamation was comprehended. He bestows the horrified crowd with a smile. He continues, enunciating more carefully than before, "All thanks to our mother, who taught us what's right, what's wrong, and to believe in ourselves above other's opinions of us." The violinist stops the instant Malcolm's voice dies. Malcolm lifts his glass, looking his mother straight in the eye. If looks could kill he'd be keeling over backwards.

They all could hear the sincerity in Malcolm's voice.

Reese evaluates Malcolm seriously, trying to pick out every truth based on emotion instead of technicality.

Hal slides low into his seat, pretending to look at a menu.

Although she gives him a tight nod to show she respects his effort, Lois seems to be less than thrilled at Malcolm's theatrics. She looks very much like she's just going to bypass the chase to go straight for the kill, ripping into them until they expose their lies.

What stops her is when the bulky man-- his chubby hand acting as a Vaudevillian cane hooking around a bombing performer too late for it to matter-- grabs Malcolm's arm and pulls him to the ground.

The water was spilled anyway, but it's his mother pushing him aside to get to the bulky man that makes Malcolm drop his glass.

"Don't you dare put your hands on my son!"

"Look, lady, I'm the manager--"

"Does it look like I care who you are?"

Malcolm thinks he mostly deserved to be yanked down (though he would have preferred it to have happened while he was still talking, if only to save him some humiliation), but he points out neither this nor the fact his mother shoving him out of the way hurt more than the manager manhandling him did. It's definitely better if she releases her rage on some stranger than keep it stored up for him. Lois keeps ranting, saying that Malcolm was wrong and he'll make it up if he has to but putting hands on him was still inexcusable, the manager ought to learn manners if not the law. She pursues the manager every time he tries to take inconspicuous steps backwards.

"Usually we manage to get dinner before we ruin it." Hal sighs. He puts his napkin back on the table. "Now, I'm getting the car. Stretch your hamstrings, kids; I'll open the door but I doubt I'll be coming to a full stop."

Reese shrugs. He tosses a roll in the air and catches it. "I've been wanting to practice my fastball."

Malcolm looks quickly to Reese but makes no attempt to stop him.

The pitch is incredible, clearing their mother's head by a hair's breadth to clobber the manager between the eyes.

Reese steps unnecessarily onto the table before hopping down and scurrying off like a squirrel.

Lois takes only a second to call after Reese ('You can't throw food at people outside of our house, either, Mister!') before she whips back around to continue her tirade.

Malcolm shines his best pityingly endearing grin at the manager even though it's a look he hasn't actually pulled off since he was younger than Dewey. He and his mother are the two members of their family who would never be waited on, on account that they could both theoretically survive in the wild, so he quickly gives her up to rush outside.

:--:--:--:

Having dived headlong into the car and sped off with tires squealing before Lois had even managed to get out to the parking lot, Malcolm and Reese sit in the back of the minivan, knocking into each other every time a corner is rounded until their father deems it safe to go the speed limit.

Reese fiddles with his hands. He throws Malcolm a sidelong glance. Malcolm seems to anticipate it, catching the gaze as it comes.

Reese's arm lifts a little. His fingers twitch. His arm lifts higher, his hand knocking Malcolm upside the head as their dad stops suddenly at a red light. He cautiously, slowly, drapes his arm around Malcolm's shoulders, then stares ahead as though nothing were amiss.

Malcolm looks at Reese curiously. It's not that they never touch. It's just the opposite- they touch frequently both in rivalry and in friendship. An arm around the shoulders can be a fight instigator just as much as it can be something to sink comfortably into, depending on the meaning behind it. But the one constant is that it's always done without hesitation. It's always an automatic way to pull the other into a chokehold or half-hug.

"Nice…throw." Malcolm's surprised to find his voice sounds nervous.

"Yeah, thanks. You too; good, um." Reese looks away. His arm twitches like he might move it but Malcolm sidles against him, encouraging him to keep it in place. "speech."

"Right." Malcolm looks at the back of his father's head. The jig will probably be up when their parents have a time to discuss the events that took place, but for now Malcolm assumes their dad's still an ally and speaks so he doesn't spoil it. "I probably shouldn't've said that in public. Getting up there was stupid."

"Yeah." Reese stares at him, deep and searching. It's a little hurt, a little hopeful, a little sad, a little content and every single one of these emotions keeps Malcolm from looking away. Then Reese says, "You almost wet yourself."

"I did not, Dilweed." Malcolm wedges his elbow sharply into Reese's ribs.

"Chill out." Reese's hand moves from where it dangles against Malcolm's chest to his temple. He draws Malcolm's head gently against his shoulder, ostensibly to get Malcolm to calm down.

Malcolm is overcome with the unique sensation of knowing the situation is weird without actually feeling it is.

"You know…." Hal's fingers drum anxiously on the steering wheel. "There's a lot of responsibility you might not be prepared for in-"

Malcolm sighs. "Don't worry, Dad, you don't have to give us 'the talk'."

Hal lets loose with a relieved, nervous laugh.

"Right. We've got this gay stuff down pat," Reese says.

_Dad's always twitched like that, right?_

"I meant because Mom still thinks we're faking, so she wouldn't care what Dad told us."

"Oh, sure, that, too."

"That's not a good reason _either_," Hal whines. "I shouldn't have to tell you to be responsible because you already know about the consequences, not because your mother won't care."

Malcolm's head bobs agreeably, his cheek rubbing up and down Reese's shoulder. "Okay. We're responsible."

"Good thinking, Dad, we should be prepared. We're all agreed: If Mom _does_ ask, that's what we'll tell her."

"No, Reese." Hal says with the voice of a man resigned to his fate, "This means I have to." He rubs at his eyes tiredly.

"No, wait, hey, Dad." Malcolm quickly leans up between the front seats. He had expected his dad's threat to be an idle one. "You told us this before, remember, using our action figures. It took like an hour --"

"Then you won't mind another fifteen minutes."

"Dang." Malcolm plops back into his seat, landing a little closer to Reese than before. The entire length of their legs touch and Malcolm leans his head against Reese's shoulder again without prompting. His hand rests itself easily against Reese's thigh as though it were so near he simply didn't notice it was not his own. Reese shifts uncomfortably, only succeeding in knocking Malcolm's hand into his lap. More uncomfortable shifting neither gets Malcolm to pay attention nor get them into a less awkward position.

Reese shoulders Malcolm away.

"What?" Malcolm asks, quietly.

"Your brain so big you can't hold your own head up?" Reese mutters back.

Malcolm, squinting in the darkness, notices the sanguinity of Reese's face. "No. I just didn't mind…" His own face goes hot, so he scoots over to his own side and glares into the back of the passenger seat.

Their father's talk becomes confusing and babbling background noise.

Reese starts throwing furtive glances to Malcolm. Malcolm's own glances follow Reese's back. They both look intermittently at what they can see of their father's head, wondering to the point of paranoia just how much the other has said and done just because their dad's in the car.

This is all that happens for the next twelve and a half minutes.

Reese slides over. He presses his mouth against Malcolm's ear so that there's no way their dad could overhear. "Seriously, you didn't?" he asks in undertone when they're near their driveway. He tries to ignore the involuntary shiver his breath causes in Malcolm.

"Didn't what?" Malcolm snaps back.

"Mind."

Malcolm's not nearly so good at being quiet, even when he talks out of the corner of his mouth. "If I said I didn't, then I don't. If I said I did, then I do. Even considering your cerebral limitations that shouldn't be too hard to figure out." He pauses as his brain connects to what Reese is talking about. His entire face softens. "Oh. No, I--"

"Well, I'm glad we had this talk," Hal says as the car draws to a halt, clearly not happy at all. "Now I'm going to go pick up your mother, and I hope you keep this little conversation in mind."

:--:--:--:

"You have any idea what Dad was talking about? Were those euphemisms or what?" Malcolm shuts their door behind him, listening to the hum of their minivan as their dad drives away.

" 'Or what'," Reese answers distractedly.

Malcolm drops onto the bed beside Reese. "What's with you?" He watches Reese with interest, mentally going over anything he could have done to upset his brother. "Oh, right. I'm sorry. About what I said at the restaurant." Malcolm folds his legs up under him as he shifts around on the mattress.

"Forget it."

Malcolm doesn't like apologizing. It always, physically more than emotionally, feels like an attack on his pride. It starts out feeling like someone just hauled off and slugged him in the gut. Then it evolves to feel like he tore himself open, insides exposed and waiting for judgment. Waiting for condemnation or acceptance. It kills him being examined like that.

But what hurts even more is when there's no response one way or the other. When someone just dismisses his apology as something trivial. It's probably wrong of him to apologize for the reason of finding self-peace even if he does also want to appease the other party, and to that degree he knows he ought to let it go.

He can't.

"No, I mean it. I embarrassed us in front of total strangers who might have kids, so we might get our asses handed to us the second we step outside, made Dad give us 'the talk'--kind of--, probably got us grounded, and Mom will most likely be able to convince Dad we were only doing this to pick fights with her. I screwed up everything. Doesn't that bother you? Aren't you at least going to hit me?"

"Maybe later." Reese shrugs. "Hey, I've been thinking." He talks quickly; in spite of what he just said if he thinks about what he's doing, he's going to chicken out.

"But…." Malcolm frowns at the dismissal but concedes that his apology is a lost cause until Reese is less distracted. "Yeah?"

"What is it we were going to do after Mom thought we were this awesome couple?"

"What do you mean?"

"That was the point, right? To prove her wrong? Make her and Dad think we were great together?"

"…Yeah, I guess so."

"Well, what then?"

"I dunno. I hadn't thought about it. It was just supposed to make her pissed, us exceeding her expectations. You know she hates it when we succeed. We'd break up after, I guess."

"Wouldn't that make Mom right?"

Malcolm opens and shuts his mouth several times. His mouth tightens and his eyebrows furrow, obviously at a loss as to how Reese came up with this before he did.

Reese shrugs again. He doesn't bother to explain that he's been planning this conversation for a week; that's the kind of thing that makes you look like a girl. He excitedly scoots closer to Malcolm. He speaks conspiratorially, emphatically moving one hand in front of him in several quick chopping motions to get his point across. The other hand finds itself curved against the center of Malcolm's back. "Now, see, the only way I figure we can make this work is if we stay together."

"Forever?"

"Just 'til Mom croaks."

"So, yeah, we stay together forever."

Reese nods with serious resolve. "Okay."

Malcolm holds off on saying anything more sarcastic. He normally supports being blunt because subtlety doesn't do anything but waste time. But the more he gapes at Reese, the more he knows if he's going to turn Reese down on this, he has to do it easily. And the more he thinks on it the more he realizes that the idea of even doing that makes him a little sick.

But that's just dumb.

It isn't like Reese was being serious. Reese was being Reese. He caught upon a good point and then went nowhere with it, a footballer running the ball to his own team's end zone.

This does surprisingly little to placate Malcolm. He looks down at the bedspread. He starts his turn-down with a compliment, "Reese, I mean, this whole thing worked out pretty well for being off the top of your head, but…."

Reese frowns at him, affronted. "It wasn't off the top of my head."

"I know it's _you, _but--You couldn't think of any other distraction than….--Are you saying you wanted to kiss me?"

Reese's face goes pale. His eyes go wide.

"No. I'm saying you've got to stop acting like such a fag, putting me in situations where I _have_ to kiss you." Reese takes a swing for Malcolm's face, and like always he connects beautifully. But this time it's different; after Malcolm exclaims, "Ow! Reese, you buttmunch!" in response, neither of them try to leave the room, and there's no ensuing brawl to knock books or action figures or papers into disarray. Instead, the animosity just stales, shrivels, and dies.

Reese stands, nervous.

Malcolm rubs his cheek. Aiming his gaze at Reese's bare feet, he says, "'Cause if you do, you could just tell me, you know." He finds himself following Reese up. He manages to meet Reese's eyes for a brief second in spite of the fact they're both trying to look everywhere but at each other. "I wouldn't get mad." When Reese swoops in closer, Malcolm moves instinctively away until his back knocks against the door. "I-if," he says, bracing for another punch. "I'm not saying you _do_."

Reese stands there, breathing into his face, for a long while, visibly mulling it over.

"All right," Reese answers finally, as carefully as he can.

"Huh?"

"I do."

"Oh." Malcolm swallows. "Gross," he says, but there's no force behind it.

_You know that saying 'Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to'?_

_How come no one ever said that to me?_

Reese is suddenly so close that for Malcolm to look anywhere but straight into his eyes would seem conspicuous. The thoughts come rapidly:_ Pupils. Dilated. Plenty of light; could be physiological indicator of attraction. Could be he's telling the truth. But, c'mon, pupil dilation? There are indefinite variables; it's not an exact science; don't focus on it, Buttwad, find something more concrete. Past experience. Okay. It's Reese. He's probably lying. But what does he have to gain from lying? He could make me look like a total jerk; he'll pull the 'I'm kidding' card and then __**I'm **__the only one who looks like I've got a gayass crush on my brother. But he's never really done something that vindictive. _

Reese licks his lips.

_So just assume Reese is telling the truth._

_All right, no problem. _

_I just have to think of-- _

Then Reese's mouth is pressed against his own; Reese's body is pushing savagely against him, making his side knock against the doorknob. It's amazingly hard to think with Reese's tongue teasing along the insides of his mouth, but Malcolm tries. He buries his hands in Reese's hair in an attempt let his body defer long enough for his mind to find the rational solution. There has to be one.

Malcolm, through having an abundance of paranoia, has long attempted to prepare himself for anything. He has thought of bullies, of car crashes, of dog attacks, of every sort of gory injury he could (and, knowing his family, probably would) get himself into. In his youth he even prepared for a zombie apocalypse until he finally decided that the possibility of the occurrence was minute enough that he could focus on other, more probable problems. It is, of course, true that when these situations actually came up there was often a hitch, a new variable he had to incorporate. But the ideas, the actual, basic problems--

He'd thought he'd thought of everything. Everything.

He does not, however, have stockpiled a solution to Reese kissing him, mouth hot and desperate and wet and tasting a little like mouthwash and toothpaste, minty and clean. To Reese biting down on his lower lip, the veins growing warm as Reese's teeth glide against them, his blood raised but not yet spilling.

Malcolm tries to calm himself; he couldn't have a solution; that would mean he'd have to think it remotely possible. He would have had to think about his Reese's hands up his shirt, making his muscles quiver involuntarily and his lungs unwilling to take in air; heart bloodless but still beating; goose bumps; hair on end; toes sliding against floorboards as he pushes upwards; fingers curling tight in Reese's hair; a keen, wordless sound escaping from his lips and into Reese's.

Into his brother's.

The haze hanging over his brain lightens for an instant of partial clarity.

"W-wait, no, Reese," Malcolm tries, not pulling away only partially because the door stops him from doing so. "If this is just a sex thing or whatever, it's not even worth having, you know? We've both had girlfriends, and I don't know how far you've gotten, but I got pretty far with Nikki and there's probably at least one other girl on the face of the planet who'd be willing to--"

"If it was just a sex thing, we'd be doing it, not talking about if it was just a sex thing." then Reese's mouth catches Malcolm's again. When he next pulls back. he explains this, too, "Like you said, we've been going out, what, two months and we haven't done crap, though---"

"No. We told Mom we were going out two months. We've only _really_ been going out six weeks."

They both stare at each other, stalled by his words.

Maybe there hadn't been love but there had been the familiar butterflies and stomach flips and feeling better just for having the other near. There were near-touches and real-touches and dates they could have faked but went on instead. Neither of them are good with relationships but they've had a few and this was always how it went before they blew it. There's a definite peaceful shame in realizing this.

"So this is for real." Malcolm has to say it, so he can double-check it in his mind. He isn't very offended by Reese answering 'Yeah.' like it's obvious. Maybe it is. The revelation pounds against Malcolm's logic but only nudges at his emotions.

They're not the sort to feel guilty when they think they're in the right, or even when they're walking the moral line, but years of history tell Malcolm that the society they've built up to is one where this is undoubtedly wrong. And if this were legitimately exposed, the general consensus would far outweigh any opinion he could have on the matter. All things considered this shouldn't feel like a secret, a good portion of their neighborhood having been told but, maybe because they've only just discovered the truth themselves, it still feels hidden.

Malcolm kisses Reese and it's warm and enticing. He asks, "Who're we going to tell?" sincerely hoping that the answer is 'Nobody', just in case it's the secretiveness that keeps his guilt at bay.

"A bunch of dorks we don't know in a restaurant."

"Shut up."

"Dewey," Reese's voice is serious but his mouth is smirking. It could be because they're always competing, or maybe it's that they know each other so well, but Malcolm catches the meaning and knows what Reese is trying to do.

"Dad," Malcolm answers in an effort to one-up him.

"We already told Dad. Negative 2 points, Loser."

"Damn." Malcolm pops the top button of Reese's shirt. "Aunt Susan."

Reese, with a derisive 'pfft', ups the ante easily. "Francis."

Their eyes narrow.

Reese's remaining five buttons pop-pop-pop-pop-pop open beneath Malcolm's deft fingers.

_Yeah, I know, telling all these people instead of just, well, none, only makes it way worse for both of us. But I can't just let him _ _ **win** _ _. _

"Grandpa Walter." Malcolm wraps his arms around Reese's neck, drawing Reese nearer. "He'd probably forgive us for wrecking his pool, but this'll guarantee you never even get _close_ to his inheritance. "

"Grandma and Grandpa. They'll _kill_ you for gaying up the one grandkid they like."

Malcolm tangles his fingers in Reese's hair thoughtfully. His nose touches Reese's as he pulls their bodies together. He discards any bluff as a smile stretches across his face.

Reese's eyes widen. He shakes his head. "No!"

"Mom," Malcolm concludes with triumph. "Have fun convincing her."

"You called her, you get her."

"Hell no. We were calling them for each other, Doofus."

"No way. You have to tell her."

"Oh, yeah? How come?"

"You run faster."

"Over the short-term, maybe. But we've got to go for duration."

Malcolm's right. Reese calls bullshit and insists Malcolm's speedier-- they both know it's not true, but Reese holds strong. Malcolm quirks an eyebrow. He's right on the edge of bringing up several occasions of being caught by Reese and forced to eat dirt. There is, his eyes read clearly, a greater chance of getting struck by lightening on the same day he wins the lottery than there is of him telling his mother the truth.

It's then that Reese makes the lucky discovery that his tongue on Malcolm's neck is pretty persuasive.

"…Okay, fine, I'll take Mom, but only if you take everyone else." Malcolm arcs into the lick.

Well, hell, scratch that. Very persuasive.

"You think hostage negotiators get close enough to use tongue on the perps?"

"Huh?"

Reese drops the question, doubling back to accept the offer before Malcolm can renege. "Deal."

Reese gives him a kiss that has all indications of being quick. Malcolm, hands still on the back of Reese's head, deepens it. Reese steps forward into the kiss, pressing Malcolm flush against the door.

Malcolm rocks up against Reese, his own pelvis grinding against Reese's, setting off a chain reaction that starts with Reese's reciprocation: a thrust causing a thrust causing a thrust.

An automatic self-curl comes with the pleasure; toes and fingers bending in towards feet and palms, Malcolm's head bowing down, Reese's shirt collar suddenly between his teeth, cottony dry in his mouth even as it's wetted by his tongue when he makes grunting 'ah's. His mouth moves from Reese's shirt to Reese's collarbone. Reese slides his shirt off smoothly and Malcolm murmurs in approval of the further-exposed flesh. Reese's hand is hot against Malcolm's hip yet magnificently cooler in comparison to his own body temperature when it goes down the front of his pants, barely finding room between jeans and underwear, barely able to find its way down for all their movement against each other.

Malcolm feels a scream or something like it housed in his chest cavity, trying to escape before it outgrows him. It rockets up his throat and he stifles it with an open-mouthed not-quite-kiss against Reese's jaw. Some of the sound escapes where there's a gap between their flesh, like wind underneath a door; a high-pitched whine with just enough impact to reveal how much more it could have been. As good as it would have felt to release it, it feels better to hold onto it. An overpowering energy of want stuck inside him, sliding back down his throat to fill him up.

Malcolm's hands move, resting momentarily on Reese's chest before slipping to the back of Reese's pants. He hooks his thumbs over the waistband of both pants and underwear and starts tugging down without undoing button or zipper. It would be wholly ineffectual were all of their good clothes not so ill-sized. As it is, he has to only scoot his hands around the half of the waistband each can reach, tugging Reese's clothes down in intervals.

Malcolm manages a low, guttural, meaningless sound when he succeeds enough to release Reese's cock, feeling its length warm against the heel of his hand.

Reese inhales sharply. His stroke against the front of Malcolm's underwear becomes harder-faster before stopping completely.

_This is--_

_Oh--_

"Reese, come on."

Reese's hand is back out, fumbling with Malcolm's zipper for easier access.

_This has to--_

Malcolm's hands move up Reese's shoulders, pulling at his back, fingernails too short to scratch but long enough to dig, to prod, urging him on.

_We're going to--_

An intelligent comment: "Crap, Malcolm."

Met with an equally intelligent response: "Yeah, really."

When Reese tugs his pants down, they are still high enough that Malcolm is only vaguely aware of the sudden coolness around the legs of his underwear.

He is certainly aware when Reese grabs his underwear and makes them join his pants mid-thigh.

He is amazingly aware when Reese next grinds against him.

_I'm fifteen years old and I'm about to--_

"Oh, God."

_\--get screwed for the first time. By my brother._

_ **Everyone ** _ _wants to be able to say _ _ **that** _ _. _

The haze hanging over his brain again lifts for an instant, this time for a clarity absolute.

"Reese, wait," Malcolm mumbles into Reese's neck. He can taste Reese's sweat on his lips. "Reese, get off me."

His voice is strangled and wet, incomprehensible, so Reese keeps on going, lips against Malcolm's hair; hands sliding to Malcolm's back, then lower. Malcolm shoves him backwards just enough that there would be inches of room between the entirety of their bodies were their hands not bridging the gaps. After being so close, being inches away is more than enough.

"We can't do this."

"You'll have to turn around," Reese supplies helpfully. He has the air of someone who knows what's going on but doesn't want to.

"No. I mean it. We can't." Malcolm hikes his pants up, just a bit, idly.

"Francis had a ton of girls in here and Mom only caught him once. We could probably get away with way more stuff since we're both supposed to spend the night here."

"That's not why." He uses his most responsible voice. "It's just we need something to fall back on in case this doesn't work out. 'At least we didn't have sex'." Malcolm nods firmly. His head is swimming. He stops to think.

Finally he continues a little less surely than before. "In fact, we should probably keep from a lot of stuff, anything really physical, in case we can't control--"

It could be Reese's eyes, heavy-lidded but excitedly bright.

It could be Reese's breath, tickling hot against him.

It could be Reese's hand, calloused on heel and fingertips, against his backside.

It could be Reese's cock radiating a warmth that he can imagine against his stomach, if not actually feel.

It could be his own very demanding arousal.

It could just be an overwhelming case of irony.

In any case, Malcolm says, "Screw it."

_Reese is right. We've been going out over a month and have barely gotten past first. It's completely okay to mess around a little. We're entitled._

He wraps his hand around Reese's cock and starts an arrhythmic stroke that eventually finds its pace. Reese readily returns the favor, his touch throwing another temporary hitch into Malcolm's rhythm. They kiss messily as an afterthought punctuating their actions. They say nothing to each other that has any meaning, instead relying on one-word expletives. Reese's grunts are louder but Malcolm's are more frequent and it all has a rawness they never expected by looking at Playboys or even touching themselves.

Malcolm comes first, and when he does it's not mind-blowing. It's just a peaceful, easy sort of release. He stalls against Reese, bites his lip, shuts his eyes not-quite tightly enough to keep his lids from fluttering, rests his head back against the door, and with a single spasmodic tightening of his body it's over.

Malcolm will open his eyes to look into Reese's for only an instant--

Reese feels strangely outside of himself for this instant; catching Malcolm at his most intimate, calm and unguarded, unthinking. It's this instant Reese will think of when they tell everyone the truth one at a time and Malcolm's high-strung enough to revert to the old nail-biting habit he'd outgrown by the sixth grade; when they have sex for the first time and Malcolm's saying 'go on' and he means it even though his entire body's unnaturally tensed, eyes included; when they break up on their graduation day-- with both of them covered in the God-knows-what that Reese had had packed dutifully into a canister until it exploded-- and Malcolm's yelling loud with all his muscles so taut he could just snap like a rubber band.

This is the first time that Reese sees Malcolm entirely for what he is, and even though Malcolm isn't in a position to see the intimacy of the moment, Reese knows that this alone keeps 'not having sex' from being any sort of saving grace.

When he comes, Reese is both happy and disappointed that Malcolm's eyes are shut again, keeping the knowing from being returned.

"For the record," Reese says when his breathing has normalized, "I lasted longer."

"Yeah, I'll be sure to write it down in our minutes." Malcolm's eyes open again, first giving a quick glance down as he watches himself wipe his hand against his crumpled pant leg. He looks back up to Reese. Though for a second Reese hopes it isn't, the moment of knowing everything about Malcolm is definitely gone.

With an amazing amount of certainty Reese realizes this just means he'll have to take it upon himself to relearn it all.


End file.
